Page 32 of Vicious Behaviors (The Next Vicious Generation #3)

Isobel

The second the sun hits my face and pulls me from sleep, I’m flooded with guilt and shame.

Last night, I let myself imagine a world where Marcello wasn’t a killer.

Where he wasn’t a person of interest in a missing person’s case.

Where he was just a man who made my body feel things it had never felt before.

Guilt is such an ugly morning companion. But it trails after me to the bathroom, clinging to my skin as I strip and step into the shower.

I need to get my head back in the game. Do my job and stop daydreaming about a man as damaged—no, as dangerous— as Marcello. And yet, there’s just something about him.

No, Izzie, there’s not. There is nothing special about Marcello aside from being a criminal.

“Wake the fuck up and get your shit together,” I mutter, staring at my own guilt-ridden reflection in the foggy mirror.

Unable to look at my face for another second, I turn around and head to the kitchen for some much-needed coffee. Food won’t go down this morning, but at least the warmth of a hot mug will ground me to the mundane moment, even if only for a little while.

I try not to look at the corkboard standing dead center in my living room. Still, eventually my gaze flicks to it of its own accord, finding the face that causes such chaos in me.

And to my shame, I can’t stop wondering what his eyes would look like if he were on top of me, inside me, fully owning me.

Ugh. Marcello’s photograph mocks me…almost as if it knew I got myself off last night with his face burned into my memory.

“Damn it,” I grumble, setting my mug down with a clink before grabbing the board and stashing it in the empty hallway closet.

“There. Out of sight, out of mind,” I whisper, like I just cleared some massive life hurdle.

How the hell am I supposed to build a case against Marcello when I can’t even look at him straight without some lurid fantasy popping in my head?

This case is doing my head in and not in a good way.

I’m always careful when I go undercover.

I do everything in my power to remain detached and objective.

I’ve never gotten attached to a subject.

Never even thought that it could be a risk.

And I sure as hell have never touched myself to the memory of a suspect’s voice or the image of his eyes watching me like I was the only thing in the room.

I need to put an end to this. The sooner I close this case, the better. So far, I’ve got nothing. No link between Marcello and Father McDonagh’s disappearance. So maybe it’s time to go back to the beginning.

I shoot off a quick text to the two clients I was supposed to train this morning to reschedule their sessions.

If I want to get my head straight, I can’t risk running into Marcello at the gym first thing.

I need space. Distance. Focus. I need to go back to basics.

And what better place to start than where Father McDonagh was last seen—Sacred Heart Academy.

I sit across from a stern-looking nun who clearly isn’t buying what I’m selling.

“Pardon me for saying this, Sister Margaretta, but you don’t look convinced,” I say with a polite, bright smile.

“You took me off guard, Miss Graham,” she replies, with a stiff voice. “I wasn’t expecting this sort of conversation this morning.”

“I’m sure you weren’t,” I chuckle softly. “And thank you again for seeing me on such short notice. I was hoping, as a woman, you’d understand the value in what I’m offering.” Her face doesn’t so much as twitch.

“I’m a soldier for God. He protects me. I see no need for self-defense when I have Him at my side.”

“And I respect that. I do. But even with His grace, the world will always continue to be a dangerous place, especially for young girls. I’m not asking you to hire me full-time.

Just that I come in once a month, say on a Saturday?

And let the girls who want to take a self-defense class sign up voluntarily.

I could even offer the space at the gym I work at now, but I think holding it here—a place they know, are familiar with, and feel safe—would be better suited. ”

“And what gym do you say you work at?” she asks, her eyes narrowing.

“DeLuca’s Gym, Mother Superior.”

“DeLuca? As in Giovanni DeLuca?” Her lips tighten into a frown.

“Actually, it’s his father who owns the gym, Carmine DeLuca. Do you know him?” I feign surprise.

“No. Just the son… unfortunately.” She adds the last part beneath her breath as her scowl deepens.

“Please let me assure you that DeLuca’s gym has no bearing on the self-defense classes I’m proposing. I just thought I could be of service,” I say quickly, holding her gaze.

Sister Margaretta still doesn’t look convinced, but the nun standing silently behind her does.

“It could count toward the girls’ extracurriculars,” Sister Agnes says gently, offering me a genuine smile.

“Miss Graham has a point. Most of the girls here have been… sheltered. Too privileged to realize that there are dangers a woman might encounter in her life that neither wealth nor privilege can protect them from. It would help them to learn how to defend themselves against the more man-made evils of this world.”

“They should have God for that,” Mother Superior cuts in.

“And how can we be sure,” Sister Agnes says calmly, “that it wasn’t God who sent us Miss Graham for that very purpose?”

That gives Sister Margaretta pause. Her brows pull together, as she studies me long and hard before finally speaking.

“I’ll give your offer some thought. But I think we can agree to give you a trial run. How does the first Saturday of the upcoming month sound to you? Can you commit to that?”

“I’d be happy to,” I reply, the knot in my chest loosening just a bit.

Progress. At last.

“Very well,” Sister Margaretta says. “Sister Agnes will show you the gym area we have on the premises. I’m hoping we won’t need to purchase any additional equipment.”

“All I need are a few mats, and I’m good to go, Sister. I’ll email you the proposal so you can review it further. Still, I’m confident that once you hear the girls’ feedback, you’ll see how valuable these classes really are.”

“I should hope so. For your sake.” She dismisses me with a wave, leaving Sister Agnes in charge of showing me around.

Classes are in session, so the hallways are mostly empty. I hear faint voices and the occasional shuffle of feet and chairs behind closed doors.

“Sister Margaretta is quite the ballbuster, isn’t she?” I ask, testing the waters with the more easygoing nun.

Sister Agnes chuckles. “It’s in her job description, I’m afraid. This school needs a firm hand. Most kids here are entitled, and it takes a strong will to handle their… let’s say, occasional lapses in conduct. You’ll see soon enough.”

“I’m not surprised. But I’ve dealt with my fair share of unruly teenagers. Might not look it now, but I used to be one.”

“Really? You seem so put together.”

“The Army helped with that,” I say, flashing a grin, conveniently leaving out that Quantico also played its part in sanding down my sharpest edges.

Unlike the students here, my background didn’t come from wealth. Quite the contrary. South Side made sure to teach me how to grow a thicker skin if I wanted to survive in my neighborhood. And sometimes that meant getting in fights that could have been solved with words instead of fists.

We continue talking as she leads me down a wide hallway into the school’s gymnasium. It’s well-lit, state-of-the-art, and honestly more impressive than I expected.

“Your students must pay a hefty tuition to afford equipment like this.”

“That, and we receive generous donations,” she explains. “We’ve been very fortunate. Good patrons are hard to find, but we’ve been blessed with a few very influential families who support us annually.”

I don’t need to ask who she’s referring to, as I bet my last dollar Marcello’s family is one of these generous patrons.

“I can see how students at the academy might come off as a little entitled, especially if they’re used to having the best, state-of-the-art equipment.”

“That’s not the case for all of them,” she replies. “The children from St. Mary’s Orphanage attend this school, too. It gives Sacred Heart a good balance. Not every student here takes the privileges we offer for granted.”

“I wasn’t aware of that.”

Sister Agnes gives a small nod, her expression thoughtful.

“It’s not something many outsiders realize.

St. Mary’s Cathedral was the first to be built, over a century ago.

The convent followed soon after, housing the sisters who served the Church and cared for the parish.

When the orphanage was built down the road, it was meant to be a sanctuary, a place where the children could be raised with dignity and compassion.

“Eventually, we realized the children needed more than shelter and sermons. They needed structure. A future. So, the Church originally founded Sacred Heart Academy for the orphans. But to ensure it would always have funding, we opened its doors to the public and made it a private institution. That’s when families of influence started sending their children here.

“But make no mistake,” she adds, her eyes meeting mine with quiet conviction, “this place was built with the orphans in mind. The privileged ones may benefit now, but Sacred Heart exists because of those children.”

We walk a bit more before I gently steer the conversation toward what I really want to know.

“I heard your community suffered a recent tragedy. My deepest condolences.”

Sister Agnes’s expression shifts. Her smile fades. “You’re talking about Father McDonagh, I presume.”

I nod.

“Yes, it was quite a blow to us all. One day he was here, and the next… gone. Lord knows what really happened.”

“Have the police made any progress?”